The Dunstable Doorbell Orchestra

My first customer in Dunstable answered the door holding a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. ‘Nick,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘before you start, have you heard anything suspiciously cheerful?’ Three bright notes floated over the garden wall. Up went her spoon. ‘That. Since breakfast. My porridge has developed a rhythm.’

Running KP Window Cleaning, I know every street on my round, and I remember the names behind the doors. Musical porridge was a new one, though. I put my trusty ladder safely beside the van and listened. A plink, a plonk and a tiny, triumphant ding came from somewhere along the row. Then nothing. Biscuit, Mrs Pargeter’s elderly basset hound, lifted one ear and looked disappointed that there wasn’t another verse.

I got on with her upstairs windows using my water-fed pole, but the mystery kept us talking. Mr Bellamy next door reckoned it was an ice-cream van with a flat battery. His wife thought someone was teaching a budgie to play the piano. I rubbed my salt-and-pepper beard and considered both suggestions. Neither explained the hollow clatter that came between tunes, like a saucepan falling downstairs with excellent manners.

After a while, I noticed the music followed the breeze. A gust rattled the last few leaves along the pavement, and off went another little tune. Then a stronger gust lifted my cap clean off and dropped it beside Miss Wren’s gate. She was the newest neighbour, and as I went to collect it, I spotted her gate swinging open and shut. Each swing brought a wooden knock and that familiar ding.

Miss Wren appeared with a box labelled FRAGILE — MOSTLY. She was a small woman wearing enormous yellow gardening gloves, looking as though she’d been caught teaching the wheelie bin to dance. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Is it terribly loud?’ Behind the gate hung old bicycle bells, wooden blocks and three metal measuring cups, with a row of wooden beads dangling between them. The wind nudged the gate, the beads swung, and the whole collection played a cheerful jumble.

‘I used to make musical things with my grandchildren,’ she explained. ‘I thought this might be a nice way to say hello.’ Her smile faltered. ‘But I haven’t quite worked up to inviting anyone round, and now the latch won’t catch. I was about to take it all down.’

I had a look. Nothing to fret over: one screw had worked loose, letting the latch droop just enough to miss. With her permission, I fetched the screwdriver from my small repair kit and tightened it. The gate clicked shut, and the garden fell quiet. From beyond the wall came Mrs Pargeter’s voice. ‘Have we lost the orchestra?’

Miss Wren laughed, then seemed surprised to hear herself calling back, ‘Only until somebody opens the gate. Would you like to try?’ Mrs Pargeter arrived first, spoon still in hand. The Bellamys followed, with Biscuit ambling between them. One by one, they opened the gate, each producing a different set of plinks and dings. Mr Bellamy managed an entrance fit for royalty, then caught his cardigan on a rose thorn. That rather settled the royal ambitions.

By the time I’d finished Miss Wren’s front windows, she’d brought out a tray of tea and found chairs for everyone. Mrs Pargeter was helping choose a spot for a little sign saying PLEASE RING THE GATE. Biscuit slept beneath the measuring cups, entirely at peace with modern music.

I packed away my pole and waved goodbye. Pulling the gate closed behind me earned one last bright ding. Miss Wren was laughing at something her neighbours had said. This time, she didn’t stop to worry about the noise.